


Disclosure

by Honeythief



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Blindfolds, Bondage, Bottom Dean, Character Death, Cock Rings, Dom Sam, Double Penetration, Imprisonment, M/M, Organized Crime, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Sex Toys, Spanking, Stockholm Syndrome, Sub Dean, Top Sam, Unrelated Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:44:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4985185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeythief/pseuds/Honeythief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is an executive member of a large criminal organization. Once he finally captures that giant thorn in his side going by the name of Winchester, business suddenly becomes pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The sixth blow lands on the captive's face with a particularly effective smack. New droplets of blood join the red stain on his creased shirt, trickling unhurriedly from the split lip. It's merely a prelude. Warm-up. Foreplay. They always ask nicely first.

"Where is he? Take my advice and _talk._ "

The prisoner lifts his head, clearly not intending to take the advice. "Or what?" he taunts. It's a challenge, not a question. 

"Well, good point. Or what..." the oppressor deliberates, circling around with folded arms. His gaze falls upon a steel cart on the opposite corner of the room. Obscured by shadows, the tools look even more menacing than usual.

The man sighs - he doesn't like having to use them. He fancies himself an interrogator, not a torturer. Torturers are psychos who derive sick satisfaction from their victim's pained screams and the crunching sound of breaking bones. He, on the other hand, believes mental abuse to be far more refined than this primitive act of gratuitous cruelty. The effectiveness of his methods has earned him quite the respect in underground circles. The 'boyking', the lackeys called him. To others, he was just Sam.

"To tell you the truth, I don't really know. See, I hadn't planned on getting quite this far."

Usually, blackmail and manipulation is as far as he ever needs to plan on getting. However, Dean Winchester wasn't a man easily blackmailed or manipulated. The smirk on his face was just as insolent as the day he was brought in, and not once did it falter during an entire week of being starved, sleep-deprived and isolated. Even now, as he hangs from the ceiling like meat on a hook, his grin remains arrogant still.

"How about we let pure chance decide, hmm? Eeny, meeny, miny, moe..." Sam chants, dragging the cart across the room. "Which one will it be, I wonder?" He halts, picking up a small accessory designed for one, specific purpose - castration. "Now, wouldn't that be a shame?"

Dean cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed. The remarkably wide selection of torture devices summons nothing but boredom upon his features. Even the most fanciful of shapes don't invoke so much as a glimmer of fear in his steadfast, green eyes.  

Sam begins his ominous countdown, finger jumping from one tool to the other. Fast at first, to induce panic, then gradually slower, and slower, to prolong the feeling of impending agony. Finally, his digit stops over a nine-tailed whip.

"Ah, how exciting for you. This bad girl here is _wicked_ ," he cracks the whip in emphasis. For some reason, it sends a rush of excitement through his system.

Dean only scoffs to demonstrate his indifference. "That? Please. Children's toy. You plan on tickling me into submission?"

"Mmm. You think you're hot shit, don't you?" Sam tears off his hostage's shirt, revealing layers upon layers of bruises from earlier beatings. "Doesn't matter. Heroes such as yourself always squeal like little pigs in the end."

He takes a first, mighty swing. The whip lands heavily on Dean's chest, breaking his bruised skin with a sickening slap. The knotted thongs immediately soak red.

And yet all it harvests is a faint shudder, nothing more.

"Well, well. Someone's tough. You know, I heard all about you. From _Alastair_? I believe you two shared some quality time together, yes?"

Dean grinds his teeth, piercing Sam with a silent glare.

"Aw, did I hit a nerve? Maybe you would like to say hello? Oh, wait. You and your pops killed him, right? And Azazel, too. And Lilith. Shame. I gotta admit, you caused us quite the headache with your little vendetta."

Glaring continues.

"I mean, with what you're doing, I don't even know how to call you. Freelance troublemaker? Warrior of justice?"

"Pain in the ass?" Dean suggests.

"Yeah, definitely. So come on, spill. We don't have to do this. Where's your daddy, hmm? We just want a little chit-chat is all."

"Bite me."

Sam braces himself, jerking the bat with doubled force. It comes down on the enslaved man's torso in a vicious series of three, merciless blows, leaving a trail of blood-soaked stripes in its wake.

A normal person would be screaming their guts out in terrible anguish by now. What Sam hears instead, is but a quiet whimper. And with that whimper, something primal stirs inside of him, something he curiously identifies as lust.

 _Lust_. A highly redundant emotion, if you ask Sam. To him, sex is a purely physiological necessity - one that he controls and keeps from clouding his judgement, unlike the vast majority of males who drool at every single pair of tits. Personally, he's always looked down on those dick-brained dimwits with blatant contempt. Sam is a professional, no less. He has interrogated countless people of both genders, all ages and various levels of attractiveness, and not once has he felt tempted to take advantage of his prisoner's helpless position.

Well... maybe once. Just now.

He whips Dean once more, just to make sure, hitting the exact same spot as to further deepen the gushing wounds. Dean cries out weakly, brows furrowing in first hints of unbearable pain.

Sam is both thrilled and confused by the burning wave of arousal that floods his body. The tingling sensation travels all the way down his spine, quickening his heartbeat, hardening his cock. _"Why him?"_ he ponders, stepping closer to the bound man. He grabs him by the jaw and twists it roughly to take a better look. True enough, Dean Winchester was not only arrogant and stubborn, but also undeniably gorgeous - even in his battered, exhausted form. The green of his eyes didn't fail to enrapture even when surrounded by prominent, dark circles. His full lips were kissable even when swollen, purple and bleeding.

Strange, that. Sam never cared much for beauty - it always seemed irrelevant. Now, he can barely look away.

He leans in, shoving his tongue deep inside the other man's mouth. He devours his aching lips, licks off the coppery taste of blood and _moans_ , aroused. The rough parody of a kiss lasts five, maybe six seconds before Dean's teeth clasp down brutally on the wet muscle. His endeavor is immediately rewarded with a quick, sharp slap.

Dean recoils from the hit, spitting out more blood. "Man, that was unhygienic! Ever heard of HIV?"

Sam feels free to ignore the comment. STD tests have long since become a mandatory procedure - it was too high of a risk to take in this line of work, especially given the large rate of sexual abuse among their ranks. For the first time in forever, he felt genuinely grateful for that policy.

"Feisty, aren't you?" he says, unfastening the prison chains. The sudden loss of support causes Dean to tumble down on his knees with a thud. Before he can muster any kind of reaction, a rough hand clutches forcefully on his short, blood-sticky hair. He looks up just in time for Sam to finish fumbling with his zipper.

"Bite down on _this_ , and you lose your own dangly bits. I'm not kidding."

He pushes his throbbing cock forward, seeking entry into the swollen mouth. Dean reluctantly parts his lips, letting himself be breached with a single, hard push. Sam grunts throughout the entire ordeal, finding immense relief in the tight clench of the other man's jaw. He fucks his face with hard, desperate thrusts and it's good, so good, better than he ever remembered it being, better than anything. How come he never felt that way? How come he didn't even know he could feel that way? Fixed on pursuing that blissful sensation, he pumps his hips faster.

Dean can only hold on for the ride, fighting a losing battle against his own gag reflex. Wanting it to be over as soon as possible, he swirls his tongue and sucks. Moments later, his captor tips over the edge with a pleased shout. Hot cum floods Dean's mouth, mixing with the blood. With a spurting cock shoved deep down his throat, he has no choice but to swallow everything, gargling in distaste.

"Good boy," he hears a praise once the softening member finally pulls out. The humiliated expression upon his face inspires Sam with a certain idea.

It's his turn to smirk, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now y'all, updates will appear... twice a week? Sounds about right.  
> See ya!


	2. Chapter 2

"Howdy there, Sammyboy!" Meg Masters shouts across the hall, loud and _oh_ so annoying. She skips forward to level with the man, giving him a hearty slap on the back. "How's that Winchester of yours coming along?"

 _Meg Masters._ Sam hates that slimy bitch with burning passion. Her presence momentarily has his blood pressure jumping to soaring heights. Great, now he doesn't need his morning coffee anymore - there's always a silver lining.

"Slow," he grumbles without getting into unnecessary detail.

"I could take that hottie right off your hands, if you so wish," she drawls, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. "If it were up to me, I'd carve every last word out of that pretty mouth of his."

Meg's signature was her ruthless, medieval manner of torture. Her victims all spilled their guts (both figuratively _and_ literally) before she could even count to ten. Needless to say, the confession was also the last thing to ever come out of their mouth before a painful execution, which she - much to Sam's disgust - enjoyed profusely.

"Absolutely not," he says through tightly clenched teeth. Another thing that fueled Sam's profound disdain for this woman was her fabled promiscuity. She liked to brag about her prowess in making people scream both ways, and certainly didn't hesitate to experiment in mixing the two extremities. Not long ago, during one of her many kinky sex romps, she "accidentally" strangled her boyfriend to death.

"Playing favorites never ends well, you know."

"Come again?" Sam's eyes narrow alarmingly.

"Please, everybody knows you're coddling him. And here I thought you couldn't be fooled by a pretty face," Meg jeers. Jeering was her third favorite hobby.

True enough, he'd ordered his underlings to take good care of Dean. It meant keeping him well-fed and medically supervised, all while sleeping in a comfy bed with a TV screen across the room.

"It's means to an end. Mind your own business, Masters."

He turns around and heads towards his captive's cell for the first time in a month, thrumming with excitement at the perspective of his long-awaited visit. Rarely does anything manage to spark equal enthusiasm in his stoic demeanor, and even more rarely is it ever connected with his job.

As soon as he enters, he's met with a pleasant sight of his boy's young, strong body chained to the celling, naked as the day he was born. Well-nourished and hydrated, he beams with charm and vigor.

"Nice of you to finally drop by! Oh, and thanks for all the pampering. Lemme guess, you're playing the good cop now?" Dean greets him cheerfully at the doorstep.

"Something like that, yeah," says Sam quietly, a faint tremor of amusement dancing upon his lips. He comes closer, circling around the bound man to examine his body from every angle. As per instructions, any signs of physical abuse have almost disappeared, barely noticeable thanks to the lavish treatment. Dean's handsome face regained a healthy color, replacing that pale and bruised shade from the first week of imprisonment. Sam could now admire his lovely features without the gruesome barrier of blood, dirt and sweat. He could behold every curve, scar and freckle previously hidden behind tattered clothing, marvel at every undiscovered detail of his physique. The soft contours of his muscles. The firm, deliciously round globes of his ass. The fine manhood hanging between two bowed legs.

Dean clears his throat, visibly abashed by his captor's scrutiny. "So tell me, what's the catch?" he asks, aiming to sound effortless, as if his nudity didn't bother him in the least.

Sam runs his fingertips across Dean's back, testing the softness of his skin, feeling the flexed muscles of his shoulders. Truly, the man was a feast to his senses - served on a golden plate, no less. He was welcome to dig in.

"There is none. Not today," he assures sweetly, arm wrapping around Dean's waist. "Just pleasure. How's that?"

"Well, I _am_ a hedonist."

Sam’s breath tickles along Dean’s nape as he chuckles. "Oh, I know. Everybody has a weakness. For most people, it's pain. Now, pain... you can take a lot of pain, can't you? That's why I'm going to give you pleasure instead." He takes Dean's soft cock in his hand, stroking it lazily.

"Ew," Dean recoils with a shiver. "I don't want it from _you_. You wanna bribe me, try something with boobs."

"Trust me, it's not something a woman can give you," Sam whispers, low and alluring. He slides all the way down the taut body, finger brushing against Dean's entrance in a teasing promise.

"So that's your grand plan, huh? You think I’m scared of your big, bad dick? You can bang me all you like, have at it. I still won’t say anything," Dean hisses inimically, trying to flinch away. Untrue to his words, he can't help but steadily indulge in the rhythmic tugging on his cock. For all the luxury he was allowed, his hands were always handcuffed to the bedpost - right above his head, full-time inaccessible. During an entire month of celibate, his balls have gotten all swollen and heavy with cum. He was simply _dying_ to get off. In that event, his dick wasn't picky - it hardened under the enemy's touch with no qualms whatsoever, aching for more.

"Watch it," Sam warns. "I expect nothing from you. Everything will be _for_ you. And want it or not, you're gonna take it."

On that note, the negotiations are clearly over. Sam lowers himself to his knees, parting the other man's cheeks to grant him an entirely new array of sensations. Through an act he once considered disgusting, he sets to deliver his promise of bliss.

Any protest that might have lingered on Dean's lips dies that very moment, stifled in his throat. He tugs at the chains, mewling as he's tasted, licked out like he's bloody ambrosia. Two fingers crawl inside him, greedy and nimble, making him lax then tense and lax again. They curl and they push, sliding out and pressing in. They tease and rub that spot over and over, setting his nerves on fire. He gasps, thighs trembling, a few droplets of sweat trickling their way down his lower back.

Sam licks them off, too. Dean's taste and scent cloud his lusty mind like an aphrodisiac. It makes him forget the ulterior motive behind his actions, the true reason he's down on the ground, eating out his hostage's ass. This was no social call, but a part of his arguably valid yet enjoyable plan to extract information. After all, cracking Dean Winchester required more... _unorthodox_ means, so to say. Sam would take him, give him that one little moment of bliss after months of pain, just one taste of heaven right before a brutal denial.

It made more sense in his mind, but he can't be bothered to care about the original purpose anymore.

"I appreciate the effort, but you totally need more practice. C+ at most," Dean rasps when Sam walks back around. The man peers at him hungrily, a few rogue strands of brown hair falling on his face. Dean returns the intensive stare, watching as Sam unbuttons his expensive, tailored shirt and reaches for a bottle of lube. He squirts some onto his palm, rubbing it along his stiff cock as he slowly comes ever so closer.

"No," Dean writhes. "Stop..." 

"Shh," Sam quiets him down, putting a finger on his trembling lips. "Now, I'm going to unchain your ankles. Either behave yourself, or kick around and sorely regret it. The choice is yours to make," he murmurs against his cheek. Without waiting to be answered, he hoists Dean's lower body up, supporting half of his weight on the chains and the other half on himself.

Dean would love nothing more than to smash his knee into that fucker’s smug face, but he’s not an idiot. He knows better than to act out after a few previously failed attempts at aggression, and this attempt was bound to fail as well. His legs wrap around Sam's waist and he just sits there obediently, looking like he was about to get executed, not fucked. Like he'd been violated already, even though Sam hasn't so much as entered him yet. His unswayed resolve was finally swaying, and it showed in that little twitch of his lips, in the tight clench of his jaw, in his averted gaze.

Sam puts it in slowly, gently even. Dean's rim stretches and yields, welcoming him in a tight, hot hold, all the way in. It was beyond any doubt that no one had ever had him like this before, and it was probably the only part that Alastair left untouched. Obviously Sam already knew that, but the thrill of taking Dean's virginity by force, the actual feeling of splitting his tight walls open was just... too much. 

They both shudder with the first moves, deep and steady from the very beginning. Dean's jaw hangs open, aborted gasps tearing from his parted lips as Sam's fat cock works his ass open with long, hard shoves. It should tear him up, push out his intestines, hurt like a sonofabitch. Yet every time he sinks down on the hot member, he shivers and wants to grind down on it, rub it harder against that sweet, sweet spot. Torn between pleasure and resentment, he eyes Sam with a hateful-yet-needy glare. He's not sure what he'd rather do right now - claw his eyes out or beg the motherfucker for more.

"Don't _look_ at me. _Feel_ me," Sam grunts into his ear, slamming inside twice as hard and fast.

Dean never listens to what the man says and always tries to do the opposite if he can, but something about that command just makes his mind go blank. No shame, no pride. Rape or not, enemy or not, gay or not; it all mysteriously blurs together and fades. All that's left is that new, oddly exquisite sensation of being filled by another man. The chains rattle as he's pounded, taken apart in ways he didn't deem possible, in ways that for once didn't involve ripped limbs and flying guts. Loud, broken cries are torn from his throat as Sam pleasures him inside and out, touches him all over, pushes all of his buttons at once... and Dean had many, like a cat that purrs no matter where you pet it. He secretly loves every touch that Sam traces over his body, every mark that he leaves in claim. He loves how he plays with his hard nipples, licks along his neck, kisses his hot mouth... ardent as if they were lovers, as if it weren't nearly as fucked-up as it was.

And really, Sam's lost at this point. He's passionate one moment and rough the next, he controls himself and then he doesn't. He wishes he could approach this with calm professionalism, treat it like any other task that simply needed to get done. He wishes he could conduct his every move like a masterful chess maneuver, make it deliberate and logical. Instead, he slams into Dean’s ass so hard that it has to hurt, losing himself in his own desire. The possessive behavior is so unlike himself that he can barely remember who he was before sinking inside that tight body.

Dean is too wrapped up in his very own throes of passion to notice that he's not the only one enjoying it more than he should. He unconsciously ruts down on Sam's dick, bringing their hips together with wet slaps, legs clenching around his waist to urge him on. His rapid breathing grows heavier and heavier with every push, expression of utter bliss blooming upon his flushed face when he feels the first spasms of an approaching orgasm. His muscles get taut as a wire, hands pulling the restrains as hard as he can, wrapping and squeezing around the chains for support. Hoarse, shameless moans constantly spill from his mouth as the dizzying pleasure rises, builds up and takes over. He comes harder and longer than ever, thick ropes of cum shooting out of his swollen cock. He clenches around the hard length still ramming inside his spent body, milking it from every last drop of hot seed. Sam fucks him through the peak of their climax, burying himself all the way inside to pump his load as deep as he possibly can.

"See?" he kisses his moist lips, easing out with a satisfied hum. Dean rests in his arms, limp and sated. "I'm always true to my words. So if I say that you're gonna start talking, that's how it's got to be."

There is a sudden rush of pain in his right palm. Dean sunk his teeth into the thin flesh, leaving a searing red mark.

Sam scoffs.

"Glad you enjoyed it while you could. To be continued," he provides before taking off, wiping his hand with a tissue. He may have won the battle, but he had yet to win the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, yeah, I know... all those ominous tags and then bam, it's actually pretty vanilla. I know. But worry not, I'm gonna try to step up my game next chapter, so stay tuned!  
> And plz keep me motivated with comments and whatnot, I love these ^_^
> 
> Thank you sooo much for reading, see you in a few days!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little heads-up: there's a tiny bit of blasphemy in this chapter, and it's not supposed to be taken seriously at all. Then again, the entire fic's not exactly serious, so there you go.  
> Still, do enjoy!

Sam comes to Dean only three days later. It wasn't long until the shy rumors of his impasse would spread all the way to the highest chain of command - he couldn't afford to shed even a faintest shadow of doubt on his competence. That first doubt is the spark that starts fire, the stone that causes avalanches. As much as Sam hates to cut it short, he needs Dean to start singing very, very soon. Otherwise, he's gonna end up getting stabbed and thrown into a ditch by someone aspiring to become the new "boyking".

As expected, he finds his captive sprawled across the bed on his stomach, snoring quietly. Funny thing, how peacefully he can sleep given his pitiful circumstances; alone amongst enemies, chained and armed with nothing but his sarcasm. Oblivious as to what fate awaits him in the nearest future. Vulnerable, yes.

He hopes that three days of parting were enough to make his boy impatient. Personally, he couldn't wait to taste and smell his skin again, to sink back inside his warm body. He couldn't focus on anything else, not when thousands of luscious images kept flashing through his mind the entire time. The abundant possibilities rendered him unable to make a decision - he didn't know what exactly he would do upon entering the room. Now, as he watches his prisoner's pliant body shift in sleep, his intentions shine brighter than a fiery beacon. Some sort of celestial enlightenment suddenly bestows him with an answer, a profane guidance that he finds so very alluring. It calls for conversion, tempts with filthy promise. Following his newly-found piety, Sam rushes to fulfill the divine instructions. Thou shalt covet. Thou shalt spank that ass bloody. Let the Word be made Flesh.

Sam whistles quietly, searching nearby drawers for the instruments of God's will. He hesitates a few seconds before snatching a brown, leather ballgag. It was all about making him talk, right? Not the other way around.

Well, scratch that. He makes it up as he goes. A spontaneous, 'roll with it' kind of guy - that's who he is now.

Sam carefully takes off his shirt and jacket, taking position behind the sleeping man. He tears off the covers and spreads his legs, slowly urging him back to consciousness. What a lovely way to wake up, have a gag shoved brutally down your mouth! Dean jerks in panic, abruptly stirred from his slumber. He lets out a muffled yelp and tugs at the steel handcuffs, adrenaline kicking into his sleep-fogged system.

"Morning," comes a familiar voice right behind his back. Dean twists his head to face the speaker, but all he gets is a glimpse of long, brown hair before he's shoved back down onto the pillow. "Do I have to blindfold you as well?"

Dean's contradictory whimper is entirely inaudible, muffled against the cotton sheets. He shakes his head as 'no', but Sam has already started covering his eyes with a tie. After all, sense of vision would be nothing more than a needless distraction from something he needed to fully focus on feeling. Like this, Dean can't see but he can _feel_  the sudden squeeze of an undersized cockring trapping him in a painfully tight hold. He feels the sticky smear of lube and the movement of Sam's long fingers stroking his prostate. He feels the burning stretch of a thick, hot cock spearing his insides with one, violent plunge from behind. And suddenly, roughness is all there is. It's almost palpable, an omnipresent entity that fills his entire world; there are rough hands digging roughly into his ass in a bruising grip, rough panting behind his back and a rough scratch of stubble against his shoulder. Rough thrusts that shake his entire body, rough smacks of skin against skin which fill the entire room. And all he can do is lay still as his body is taken, used, forced open.

He starts enjoying it way too soon. The onslaught of sensations makes it difficult for him to feel any actual shame for finding pleasure in being abused. Instead of retreating into some calm place in his mind and waiting for the storm to be over, he chooses to be fully aware of every single second of being rammed into the mattress by his sworn enemy. And just when Dean manages to tune into the brutal rhythm of Sam's pounding, the man suddenly lands a harsh slap on his ass - and then two more after that. Never stopping to plunge in and out, he smacks Dean's bottom every three thrusts or so, each hit stronger than the last.

Dean's face burns hot from pain and pleasure, his needy moans coming muffled against the gag. For Sam, it's an incentive to hit and fuck him that much harder, to cover every inch of his smooth skin with marks. Soon enough, Dean's ass turns a ripe, cherry red hue, so painful that it feels like it's been branded with scorching iron. Sam doesn't relent, beating his hips against Dean's cheeks with even more momentum, choking out strained moans out of his clenched throat every time he fucks in. He pins him down by the waist, forcing his ass higher and spreading his legs wider, watching Dean's hungry hole swallow him all up. He pulls out just to sink his cock back inside, bury it balls-deep with one, rough shove. Dean wails as Sam keeps fucking him like that, teasing his prostate with short, deep stabs. 

"Where is John? Tell me and it'll all be over. You don't have to go down with him."

When the question doesn't elicit any kind of response, Sam pulls his dick all the way out this time. Dean whines pitifully, still unsated and hot from arousal. Sam snorts and smacks his red buttocks once more, kneading the round flesh and teasing the stretched rim with his fingers.

"You poor thing. Want it bad, hmm? Just say the word, and I swear I'll fuck you so hard and good you'll pass out for hours. I'll take this off..." He yanks at Dean's cockring, making him sob in pain. "And this, too..." His fingers clench around the ballgag's leather buckle. "Then, I'll shove my cock back inside you. I'll do it hard and fast, just how you need it. You know that I keep my word, right? Remember how good it felt when you came on my cock, baby?"

Dean remembered. His body trembles in lust at the memory, stomach clenching in desperate want.

"Mmm, so do I... you got so fucking tight for me, made me cum so hard..."

Sam's breathing speeds up, affected by his own, steamy words. His hands wander across Dean's back in a soothing caress, coaxing him to relax and surrender. "You don't have to fight me. All you have to do is tell me, and you'll get all the pleasure in the world. Seems like a fair deal, don't it?" He rubs his dick against Dean's reddened, loose entrance, ready to slam home any second. "So... what's it gonna be?"

Dean shakes his head frantically, biting down on the gag hard enough to make his teeth throb in pain. He's genuinely surprised that he hadn't simply nodded, that he hadn't given into those honeyed words. That he still has some fight left in his abused, fucked-out body.

"Was that a no? Let's try again." Sam grabs Dean's swollen cock, teasing the slit with his thumb before clenching his fist on the painfully stiff length. "Tell me, Dean. Where is he?"

Dean doesn't tell. He tries to fight off the flood of tears welling up in his eyes. He's grateful for the gag in his mouth - otherwise, he would've torn his lips to shreds with the way he's biting down on it.

When Sam takes him again, Dean can't stop himself from crying anymore. Tears begin to trickle down his cheeks, streaming from behind the blindfold. It's getting harder and harder to breathe when he's sobbing like that, when he's spiraling dangerously close to passing out, close to feeling numb again. It's too much. His exhausted body is repeatedly torn apart with sharp, unbearable pleasure every time Sam slams inside his ass, irritating the freshly spanked skin. There are bleeding wounds on his cuffed wrists, and his arched back is straining from the pressure of being fucked from behind so roughly. Not to mention the agonizing need for release, worse than any of the torture he's suffered in the past. Soaked in sweat, aching and helplessly aroused, he's forced to suffer through every movement of the other man's hips. 

Thankfully, it doesn't take much longer for Sam to spill inside him. He shoots hard, panting and moaning from the sweet satisfaction that Dean was forbidden to reach. He rides his ass until it ends, savoring every rush of pleasure and seeking more still, right until he's left feeling completely spent and sated. Only then does he take off both the gag and the blindfold, grabbing Dean's jaw to look him in the eye.

Dean is... well, completely devastated - his eyelashes and cheeks are wet with tears, face flushed red from over-stimulation. Weak, broken and beautiful.

"Last chance," Sam speaks up quietly.

"Shove it up your ass," Dean hiccups in answer, burying his face in the pillow. Sam just sighs and gathers himself up.

"Suit yourself. But I'll come every day. I'll spread your legs, fuck you senseless and walk away. And over and over I can go, Dean. How long can _you_ last?"

Suddenly, there's a brief knock on the door. It opens before Sam can say "don't come in."

"Sir? It's time for his breakfast."

"Ruby, good. Take care of this mess while you're at it. I want him prepared the same way for tomorrow," Sam gives her a pat on the shoulder, buttoning up his linen shirt. "Don't suppose I need to remind you to keep quiet about this?"

"Well, if you throw in some extra cash this month, I just might remember."

"That's my girl," Sam grins and exits the room with a last glance over his shoulder. For a short moment, it's completely quiet.

"Man... he got you good, didn't he?" Ruby whistles in awe, eyes raking over Dean's ravished bottom and stopping at his ever-hard manhood. "Ouch. Looks painful. Hope you don't get blue balls or nothing," she says with fake sympathy.

"More like my dick's gonna wilt and fall off if you don't do something about it," Dean laments. Now he finally has the time to feel all the anger and humiliation previously overthrown by other emotions. If only she could take that bloody thing off at least...

But Ruby doesn't seem to give a damn. She withdraws her phone, dials a number and waits for the person to pick up.

"Hey. You gotta come and see something."

Dean flops down in resignation. 


	4. Chapter 4

Sam had never gotten "the call" before. Ever-meticulous and right on schedule - didn't it always use to be his trademark? Meanwhile, he's running on borrowed time, slowly running  _out of it_ entirely. "The call" has awakened a sense of duty and pride he never admitted to having. He wants to keep those worshipful stares, apprehensive whispers and bowed heads in respect at the very sight of him. Who knew there was so much vanity lying beyond his composed demeanor?

A week, he'd said.

If Sam doesn't fuck the information out of his stubborn slave by then, he'll have to improvise a plan 'B'. And damn if he's ever going to let anyone dethrone him. Over his dead body, perhaps.

"What's with the long face, peanut? Not enough sugar in your coffee?"

Meg's leaning against the door to Dean's cell with her usual, bitchy smirk, wearing that awful shade of purple lipstick and cheap eyeshadow. If his day could get any worse, that's how.

"I don't take my coffee with sugar. And you're in my way," Sam growls. His icy-cold glare does nothing to scare her off - she's like a persistent fly that's too stupid to realize it's about to get swatted.

"You should be nicer to me. After all, I've got your reputation by the balls."

Sam's gaze hardens even more as he listens.

"Couldn't resist, could you? Trust me, I understand completely. But I'm just a perverted bitch, and you're the 'boyking'. So if the word gets out that you popped Dean Winchester's cherry and still have bupkis, you'll go down like Titanic." With that, she pauses for better effect. "Spoiler alert - I'm the iceberg."

Sam doesn't ask how she found out. While he chooses his men wisely, taking their loyalty for granted would be awfully naïve. And if anyone's naïve, it's the idiot who ratted him out - especially if he expected to somehow get away with this. Sam might not be a violent man, but he's not a meek one either.

"What do you want?" He folds his arms on his chest, mirroring Meg's position.

"Just one thing, really. A word with the boss."

Sam frowns. However easy that might sound, it really wasn't. Their leader's identity was known only to a small group of elite members, while the not-so-elite ones hardly knew anything at all about the guy. To them, he was just a big question mark they still worshipped not unlike a deity. And the few who actually had the privilege to commune with that 'deity' were nearly just as glorified.

Meg was clearly out of her league. What the hell could she possibly hope to achieve? Sam knows better than anyone that Lucifer will squash that smirking bitch like a bug if she says anything he might not like.

"Done and done. Just stay away until I'm done with Winchester. Now, get lost."

She has enough common sense to listen and back off. Sam's able to tolerate her presence only for so long, and his patience has already been worn thin today. As she leaves, some oddly insecure feeling settles deep in his gut - like he's missing something terribly important. Meg's a generally suspicious piece of shit who can't be trusted to form a sentence without lying twice, but she has never been able to get one over on Sam. This time, he feels a shroud of anxiety hover above him like a black, rainy cloud.

What the hell was happening to him? This really wasn't the time to be having a self-doubt crisis. Rainy cloud or not, he has to push himself more than ever. Even though his determination to fulfill the task has fallen flat for the moment, he can't give up. He either makes this happen, or something will happen _to him_.

Four deep breaths and a cup of coffee later, he's finally ready to continue what Meg had interrupted. Some of the pressure resting on his shoulders is miraculously lifted once he steps inside his favorite hostage's cell. 

Dean looks gift-wrapped; Sam half-expects to find a colorful ribbon sticking out of his butt. The cockring is already on, lube's waiting readily on the bedside table and Dean's bound legs are spread apart so wide that he'll definitely have problems closing them back again later.

"Yeah, laugh it off. I look like a goddamn slut," Dean rolls his eyes in response to Sam's mischievous grin. 

"You _are_ a slut in this room, Winchester. Might as well look the part."

Dean pouts his lips.

"Where's your black latex suit with chains and studs, then? You're ruining everything."

Perhaps it would be best to follow Dean's example. Despite his hopeless predicament, despite everything that's happened to him and everything that still _could_ happen to him, he always manages to maintain good humor. Curiously enough, Sam feels a pang of sympathy for the man - an emotion that has long since left his cold, corrupted heart.

"So, what have we got planned for today? Fisting? Breathplay? Golden shower?" Dean chatters, casual as if he was discussing tomorrow's weather. Meanwhile, Sam rummages in the drawers, waiting for another revelation to dawn upon him. Anal beads? No. Electroshocks? Maybe some other time. Whip again? Nah. He finally retrieves a big, bendable dildo and a pair of nipple clamps. 

"That's it?" Dean sounds decidedly unimpressed, if not almost disappointed.

"Oh, give it a chance. It vibrates, too." Sam switches the device on, settling between his captive's splayed legs. He attaches the nipple clamps first, drawing a quiet hiss from Dean's lips.

Green eyes follow his every move with wariness, some unreadable thought hiding beyond that watchful gaze. There's no fear this time, no hatred, no disgust. Almost as if there was something akin to trust beginning to form between them, some weird sort of being comfortable with each other.

"Look at you. Already hard for me, yeah?" says Sam, pouring lube onto the silicon toy. He starts teasing Dean's cock with the vibrator, making it twitch against his belly. The toy moves along the hard length, buzzing quietly as it slides over the red, leaking tip and presses down to massage it thoroughly. A hot blush creeps across Dean's cheeks as he writhes helplessly in his bindings, trying to either arch up or move away. If it weren't for that devilish cockring, he would've spurted all over his chest already.

"Is that it, Dean?" Sam purrs mockingly, loving every sigh and gasp that leaves the man's lush mouth. His hand closes around the nipple clamps' chain, pulling it lightly so that Dean gets that perfect mix of pain/pleasure. He scoops up some lube and circles his opening with a finger, giving him time to grow needier, to push back and crave to be entered.

It doesn't take long until he's ready to slip two fingers past the wet rim, burying them deep inside with a pleased hum. "Oh, you won't be so tight after I'm done with you," he promises, turning up the toy's vibrations and rubbing Dean's cock harder. He goes like that for a while - fingering his hole, playing with his nipples, massaging his cock and balls... he has the man shaking and groaning underneath him, wrenching his eyes shut as his body is worked towards its limit.

It feels way too good and way too soon. Dean tries to desensitize himself to the pleasure, just shut it all out and endure. But the fight is lost before it even genuinely begins. It is his weakness, after all; the all-consuming desire to be touched and pleased. Even when Sam's not with him to spark that need, his mind is filled with sex, sex and sex 24 hours a day. He closes his eyes, letting himself be devoured by that maddening feeling of too much and not enough.

"You want it here?" Sam pulls out suddenly, sliding the lubed toy up and down against Dean's slick hole. "I guess I could just play with you like this, leave you feeling empty and un-fucked..." That said, he stuffs Dean's ass with the vibrator in one, smooth thrust. "But where would be the fun in that?"

Dean cries out wildly as the toy collides with his sweet spot, stimulating it with waves of toe-curling vibrations. He tilts his head up, watching Sam jerk the toy in and out of his ass, harder and faster until it's full-on slamming inside, until Dean's dizzy and breathless and mad with lust.    

"Mm, that must feel good," Sam drawls. "But my cock would be better, right?"

Dean licks his lips, panting harshly. There's no denying that a silicon sex toy couldn't possibly replace that hot, throbbing cock that Sam's been keeping confined in those pants. When he finally unzips them and pulls himself out, the sight is nearly mouth-watering.

He's rock-hard, gorgeously thick and dripping wet with juicy precome. Dean gulps and licks his lips again, staring shamelessly at the other man's raging erection. The vibrator still keeps on buzzing inside of him, tickling his prostate, filling him all up... but when Sam scoots closer and ruts himself between Dean's legs, he shows no intentions of removing it. In mere seconds, that terrified, "virgin" look is back on Dean's face when he realizes what's about to be done to him.

"N-no, no, _don't--_ "

He can only grunt in pain as he's forcibly stretched wider. Sam squeezes himself inside next to the large dildo, forcing his cock further and further when it really had no right to possibly fit in.

"Relax..." he rumbles, wiping off the involuntary tears that have begun trickling down the corners of Dean's eyes. He's not even all the way inside yet, slowly sinking deeper inch after inch. But once he makes Dean take everything he has, it's not long until he starts plowing his ass wide open with rough, fast thrusts. He grabs the vibrator's base and moves it around, finally turning it to the highest setting.

Right then, they're both assaulted by a wave of piercing pleasure. Dean's rim drags against Sam's cock every time he retracts, and the vibrations feel exquisite as he slides in and out of his slave's hot body. He ruts in fast and desperate, creating a wet, smacking sound every time their lower parts collide. It's deliciously pornographic in every sense.  

Dean is, once again, caught in an endless loop of tortuous ecstasy. He's moaning, crying,  _screaming_  his throat hoarse, desperate for a release that seems to be so close yet so far at the same time. His senses are overloaded, overheated and overwhelmed. His head feels like it might explode, and every part of his body - every hair, limb and muscle - feel like they're on fire. He just can't take no more but he  _has_  to take more, and more, and more still.

Or does he? Does he really have to? After all, he still has that ace up his sleeve, his ticket to paradise... just two, simple words.

Whatever may happen in the distant "after" somehow no longer feels relevant. All that matters is to step over that edge, to cross the finish line, to-

Suddenly, a blissful rush of relief floods Dean's exhausted body. The vibrations, along with the hard movements of Sam's hips, unexpectedly come to a stop. Dean's abs clench and contract, heaving with rough breaths. He swallows every bit of air he can while he's finally given a break from being pounded into the mattress. Streams of sweat glisten on his taut skin, musky and so inciting that Sam leans in to lick down his chest.

"Have you got something to tell me, love?" he says, sucking Dean's sore nipples, breathing soft blows of air to soothe the burning itch. Lower still, he trails hickeys up his inner thigh, ending with a kiss on the inside of his knee.

"Please..." Dean sobs, trembling in his captor's arms.

"Don't beg me, Dean. You know how to end it." Sam jerks the toy out and plunges himself inside the loose, warm hole. "We can end this right now."

But it doesn't end, not until Sam has used him each and every way. He keeps fucking into his ass, erratic and out of rhythm, chasing the climax that he denied himself earlier. His cock slips out of the loose hole and he guides it back in with a rough shove, sliding deep inside without any resistance.

"Tighten that ass for me, come on," Sam pants. He doesn't expect the other man to actually obey, but that hot, delectable friction returns full-force, squeezing around his shaft in a way that makes him shiver in bliss. "Good boy," he growls, red-faced, driving into Dean's clenching asshole. He pins him down by the hips, rutting inside those few last times before he's overtaken by a surge of blazing pleasure. He finishes inside of Dean with a shout, pulling out halfway through to paint his flushed skin with seed. 

As he goes down from his high, exhaustion kicks into Sam's sated body. His chest rises and falls rapidly due to his harsh breathing, matching the crazed rhythm of his heartbeat. That polished hairdo he spent full 10 minutes on styling has completely fallen apart, turning into a disheveled yet sexy mop of brown locks. Once his mind clears, dispersing the fog of arousal and ridding itself of the post-orgasmic haze, he becomes fully aware of having suffered yet another defeat. One day of his remaining week has been crossed out, bringing him that much closer to the deadline.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he should've opted for the cart with torture tools instead.

He'll give him two more chances and not once chance more.


	5. Chapter 5

It seemed like he was on the verge of saying something last time. Biting his lip in deep contemplation, silently weighing down his pros and cons. He clearly opened his mouth not to moan, but to form a word. The breath he released was definitely meant to utter something else than a sigh.

Once Dean crosses that breaking point, Sam will go back to his daily routine of being a significant and dreaded individual. Wonderful – he’s absolutely earned his place, after all. But then, what else is there to it?

Save for two loyal dogs, he’s completely alone in his gigantic, luxurious house. He has stacks upon stacks of the finest vintages and brands of wine, but no one to share a glass with. He's never been able to fall in love due to his suspicious, twisted nature of treating everyone he meets. Each and every of his many 'friends' would easily stab him in the back without blinking an eye. And when he comes home, he spends hours in the library with his beloved dog snoozing at his feet, reading the most intricate and sophisticated literature he can find.

There is not a single part of his life that crime hasn’t corrupted. Seeing as he’s never known otherwise, he can’t even be sure if that’s who he really is. He does enjoy the power, the perks, the thrills... and yet there is something terribly amiss, some gaping void in his life that prevents him from reaching fulfillment.

And Dean… made him feel things he’d never felt before, and he didn’t just mean the sex. Surely he could learn a thing or two from him about the true values of life. Sadly, their relation was bound to meet a swift and violent end. Such was the order of things. 

But he doesn't think about it right now, not when Dean's with him, under him, around him. They've been joined for a longer while, now; endlessly, Sam keeps balancing himself on the edge, altering the pace from fast, rough fucking to damn near tender love-making. "Tell me, Dean" - he'd whisper, driving in slow and deep. "Just fucking say it already" - he'd growl, bearing down on him with brutal force.

He spent an hour alone just to rile the man up, to tease him beyond his limits. Long, slow and maddening. There wasn't an inch of his body left that Sam hasn't explored, kissed, marked. Like he'd been trying to learn the position of every other freckle on his skin, or maybe attempting to guess how he got every other scar marring his flesh.

When he finally buried himself inside his body, it was hot and tight as ever, opening up to let him in. If only his mind would surrender the same way, bend under his influence just like his body flexed under his touch.

And tonight, that moment seemed closer than ever. Looking down at his prisoner, Sam sees a man on the verge of breaking down, fighting with the very last remains of his endurance. His control is wading with every passing minute, and Sam isn't going to stop until it finally crumbles. He fucks into him forcibly, reaching down to wrap a hand around his throat. He watches Dean's face gradually turn red as he fights for air, choking on his own moans. He's right on the brink of passing out when Sam finally lets go, and even then he still struggles to catch his breath as it's punched out of his lungs with another hard thrust against his prostate.

Sam refuses to give him a break. He slaps Dean's flushed face, slamming into him hard and fast without cease. There's no point in holding back. When he hits him again, a red bruise blossoms on his left cheek. Once more, and there's blood smearing across his chin. Sam ponders idly how much this man must hate him by now, then lands another blow.

"Talk, darling, or I'm gonna grab myself some knife and rip you a new hole to fuck. I mean, I'm kind of getting bored of this one already," he hisses, fingers clawing at Dean's rim, spreading it painfully as he plows inside his ass. It could've been his imagination, but it felt like the man tightened around him ever so slightly. Apart from that, he doesn't seem to react to the insults, nor the beating. He doesn't even cry or scream anymore, he just whimpers weakly as Sam owns him whichever way he wants. And somehow, this control he holds over Dean's entire being feels insanely erotic.

Sam's cock pulses hotly and he can barely hold himself back from spilling inside Dean's hot channel. Fuck, he wants it so _bad_. He slows down, developing a teasing pattern - two shallow thrusts with just the tip of his cock and a hard, deep one with the entire length.

It drives them both crazy.

He keeps it up, leaning down to reach Dean's captivating lips. Sam knows that kissing him will only end with getting bitten again, but he just can't seem to resist the appeal. Dean's mouth feels soft and pliant as it parts willingly to connect with his own, effectively luring him into a trap. He tastes his blood once again, just a slight aftertaste that brings back the memory of when it all began. Sam gives himself up to the sensation, waiting for the surge of pain that never comes, for his own blood to mix with the one he's just licked off his lips. Instead, he feels Dean's tongue move slowly to tangle with his, pressing closer to deepen the contact.

Sam gasps, taken aback. His rhythmic movements falter in disorientation. It only makes sense that Dean should resort to akin strategy, hoping it would gain him some leniency at least. How foolish...

...and how pleasing nonetheless. Sam begins to wonder what it would feel like to just unchain him and have his hands slide across his skin, to run through his hair and spread his warm touch all over... he responds passionately, thirsty for the taste of Dean's lips, for everything there is to take. His hips pick up the pace, rolling smoothly into his (suddenly willing) lover's body. Their kisses grow more heated, with more biting and gasping for breath involved.

When Sam pulls away for one brief moment, a slither of warm breath tickles his right cheek. The lips he was kissing just a few seconds ago are now pressed against his ear, whispering.

"Idiot. They're gonna screw you over."

Sam hauls himself up on his elbows, frowning sternly. "What did you just say?"

Dean looks back at him with those gorgeous green eyes, a myriad of emotions peering through the lusty mist of his gaze. Mostly, there's determination - it hasn't burnt out yet, apparently. And then, something... sincere? Honesty? Sam wouldn't know honesty if it slapped him in the face. Honesty's extinct. It belongs in a museum.

"Ruby and Meg. They're onto you."

Sam's stomach sinks. Ruby? Trust is a strong word, but if he had to pick one person he trusted most, it would've been her.

"What about them? Talk!"

Dean's face hardens. He doesn't bend just yet.

"Not unless you promise to let me go. You always keep your word, right? Fucking promise it."

Sam knows all too well that he cannot do this. His instructions left no room for personal interpretation; "find out everything you can and kill him", with the emphasis clearly put on the "kill" part. He doesn't follow orders all that gladly (yes, he prefers to be the one handing them out), but he has never dared to defy one either, aware of the pending consequences. For all the strange sympathy he harbored for the man, he couldn't grant his request.

Instead, he'll give him the death he deserves - clean and painless.

"I promise. Now tell me."

Dean regards him dubiously, trying to spot the slightest hint of a lie.

"They want to sell you out to the boss. Have been planning it for years, gathering whatever shit they could find and pin on you. But now that they've figured out a way to meet with the guy... well, use your imagination."

Sam doesn't have to imagine anything. He knows exactly how this story goes.

"How could you possibly know all this?"

"I overheard them talking two days ago. They thought I was unconscious."

So the "rain cloud" turned out to be a "storm cloud". His head's been on the chopping block the entire time, and the executioner's been parading right under his nose. _Ruby_. How blind has he been? He should've known better than that, having survived so long in this wretched industry. Instead, he let his guard down like some bloody amateur. He let the falsely safe shadow of his reputation dull his vigilance.  

Anger starts boiling up inside him, eating him from the inside out. He's all but _seething_ with it, with the bitterness of betrayal, with all the humiliation. He tries to stifle it and save for later. He'll need it to fuel his revenge. Oh yes, there was going to be revenge.

"Okay, all right. Now, where's your father?"

Dean hesitates. Without that one last piece of information, he'll become useless. Expendable.

"Where. Is. He?"

His eyes close for a few more seconds, as if there was any use in postponing that moment any longer.

"Dead, he's dead. Killed by one of yours. I-... I couldn't protect him. He's gone."

There. He said it. It's over. All he can do is wait, wait until Sam grabs the nearest knife and slits his throat open... leaves him there to bleed out on the pristine white sheets, fighting to catch one last breath, just one more.

And while he waits, Sam's features soften. The wrinkles on his forehead smooth out, the frown disappears. He smiles, albeit sadly for some reason. Then, unexpectedly, he reaches over to unlock the handcuffs. He's not sure himself why he does it and he probably doesn't even want to understand. But Dean's hands, instead of reaching up to choke him like expected, grip onto his shoulders for support.

"Now, I believe you've earned something," Sam mutters, stroking his cheek in reassurance.

Dean sobs in indescribable relief when the ring from the base of his cock is finally, _finally_ removed. He breathes shakily as all the blood starts rushing back, flowing freely again. His eyes water up and glaze over. Who cares that he's probably going to die today? Not him. Not when he's about to feel better than he ever has in his entire life. And if he doesn't go to heaven, he'll have at least had a taste of it on earth.

Sam grabs his cock and starts moving inside of him again, taking him high, higher, _the highest_. Just a few, strong snaps of hips, just a few blissful seconds of build-up and Dean's coming. No, he's _soaring_. Painfully intense pleasure tears through him like a hurricane, an unstoppable force that wrecks him all up. His body seizes in orgasm, muscles drawing tight like a bowstring. He struggles to breathe, sobbing and moaning wildly as Sam still keeps on pounding that spot, sending wave after wave after wave until it seems like he might never come back down from it again. Dark spots start to dance before his eyes, spreading and taking over his vision as he writhes on the bed, shaken up and drained by the force of his climax.

The last thing he registers is the familiar warmth of the other man's seed filling his insides before he slowly slips into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably tell, we're nearing the end already. The next chapter will be the last one, and after that there will only be a short epilogue to follow.  
> Hope you enjoyed it until now... ;)


	6. Chapter 6

How bizarre to be awake again. At this point, he doesn't even know whether it bodes well or ill. Naturally, it could mean that he was going to be released. Or that he was going to meet a very slow, agonizing end, which was the less optimistic version of the two.

Trying to keep a positive mind yet careful not to get too hopeful, Dean sits waiting on the bed. His thoughts immediately drift off in a very obvious direction. Questions and doubts assail him from every angle, gnawing away at him as he desperately wishes for it to be already over, no matter the endgame.

He dies, then he dies - tough luck. If he miraculously gets set loose - well, then good for him. But the uncertainty itself? It's maddening.

He glances at the clock; it seems to be around noon already. As opposed to the storm currently raging inside his head, the room he's grown to hate so much seems mockingly peaceful and quiet.

When the doorknob finally turns after what seems to have been an eternity, Dean's heart nervously jumps to his throat. His oppressor - that filthy, perverted, criminal piece of shit - invites himself inside and leans against the doors, staring at him silently. This rotten, evil, murdering son of a bitch smiles at him warmly and steps closer, stuffing his hands in his pockets. For some reason, Dean feels a tingle in his stomach that has nothing to do with nausea or stress.

A familiar scent of expensive cologne fills the air as Sam draws nearer. The asshole looks quite good in that suit, too. Groomed, well-dressed, polished... Dean has seen this man lose control, get all wild and unkempt, and the tingle in his stomach intensifies. For a moment, he forgets his impending execution; instead, his mind evokes the memories from their last couple of days - steamy, blurry and bittersweet...

"Hey. How are you doing?" Sam pulls him out of his indecent thoughts, sitting down on a chair right in front of him. He links his hands together, twiddling his thumbs.

Twiddling is a bad sign, isn't it?

"Well, you tell _me_ how I'm doing." Dean fidgets on the bed, forcing an easy smile on his lips. _No matter what, always keep your game face on_ \- that's what dad used to tell him. So, no more weakness - if he goes out, he'll go out in style.

"Right. Let's get this over with," Sam agrees, nodding. "But before we do... just tell me one thing. Why choose to suffer? Why not simply tell me straight away that John died?"

Dean snorts.

"Yeah, and then what? Slow, painful death? Thanks, but I'd rather have passed. I saw a chance with you, and I took it," he pauses shortly. "You _are_ going to let me go, aren't you?..."

Sam sighs, staring down at his shiny dress shoes.

"They're never going to leave you alone, Dean. Sooner rather than later, they will find you and settle the score. If they did it once, they can do it again. And trust me, they have eyes and ears all over the States. One mistake and you're done for. It's a dead end, literally."

Dean's face is calm and still as if carved in stone. So the life he'd been clinging onto so desperately was about to be taken from him at last. After everything he'd gone through just in order to survive, after spilling and having so much of his own blood spilled, after fighting until he couldn't fight no more... it ultimately turned out to have been in vain. He'd kept deluding himself that everyone deserved a second chance, a fresh start as atonement for their many sins. And yet here he was, about to be put down like a dog by someone he'd so foolishly trusted. He took a gamble, and lost the only thing he still owned. Game over.

At least he finally knows now.

"So you see, while I certainly _could_ let you go, I'd strongly advise against that solution. You shouldn't just prance around while I sort this mess out. I have a safe house you could stay in and wait it through. Then, you'd be free to go your way. How's that?"

What? How's _what_?

It's like someone disconnected Dean's brain. Error, error.

Is this a trick? After all, he was truly prepared to die. He's made an account of all his deeds, of memories good and bad, of all the people he knew and cared about. He wasn't at peace, no - too many loose ends, too much bitterness for having lost the fight... but he was prepared nonetheless.

"Don't look at me like that. It's nothing personal. I'm merely returning a favor and keeping a promise. Like I always do."

Dean blinks, realizing that he'd probably been gawking at Sam in wordless awe.

"Uh-... sure. What about..." he makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, suddenly deprived of all his eloquence. "What about you? I mean, the..."

"I'll handle it," Sam cuts him off, the confidence in his voice leaving no room for doubt. "Now go out the back door, there's a car waiting outside. The driver will take care of everything. Don't worry, I made sure you can trust him."

For some reason, Dean believes every last word that comes out of his mouth. But then, does he really have any other choice? With an idle nod, he rises from the bed and stands on his wobbly feet. Sam follows him out the room without a word, closing the door with a slam. 

_Slam._

Wow. After roughly two months of being imprisoned in that grey, stuffy room, the narrow corridor somehow looks like freedom, and the slam of the doors closing behind them sounds like the strike of a judge's gavel dropping his charges. He's been acquitted, and it seems so unreal.

Sam shows him the exit at the end of the hallway, clearing his throat meaningfully. "Go, before anyone sees you."

After a brief moment of hesitation, Dean nods him farewell and turns around to march away. On his own two feet, unshackled, unrestrained, _free_. Just free to leave and free to live.

And while he marches, he comes to realize that he doesn't hear the clacking of Sam's black, glossy shoes down the hallway. Driven by a sudden impulse, Dean stops in his tracks and turns back around.

"Hey... visit me some time," he calls out before the other man can walk away, too.

Sam's still there. His face lightens up with a smile - genuine and rare as diamonds.

"Wouldn't miss it."


	7. Chapter 7

Hey, have you heard what happened?

I'm telling you, they all had it coming!

I kind of liked that skank, you know. Masters, was it? She gave decent head.

What? I thought they were working together!

No, you idiot! I'm sure that Winchester did it, ran away, and now he's chasing him!

Wait, he's alive?

I have no fucking clue what happened, I thought it was all planned by the boss!

Didn't that bitch try to frame him?

Wait, who did whom? I thought it was the other way around!

God, there was so much blood. Sick bitch...

You don't know shit, they're all dead, and we're gonna be next!

They obviously used to hook up. Love triangles, man.

Whoa, didn't he say that he had nothing to do with it?

Either way, you better not mess with him.

Yeah, Lucifer might wanna start packing his bags!

 

Two months after, the city is still in turmoil. Countless versions of the events pass from mouth to mouth, speculations and unanswered questions hang suspended in the air. The legend circulates back and forth, an ever-growing cluster of fantastic variations that depart further and further from the truth. Nobody knows anything for sure anymore.

Not far away, the alleys still thrum with gossip, but right here - in the nocturnal calmness of New York suburbs, it's pretty quiet. There's nothing but even, calm breathing and a steady rhythm of a heartbeat. Just the warmth of another body snuggled up to his side.

Sam stares at the ceiling, running his fingers through short, dirty blonde hair. It will be a while until that chaos he created sorts itself out. Until then, he's fine right here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Endings are hard." - Chuck Shurley
> 
> I hope that's enough of a justification for that vague ending :D Anyways, this is it! I'd like to thank everyone who's left kudos/comments until now, it really helped to know that there is an audience for my scribbling :) So, here's a big hug from me!  
> (づ￣ ³￣)づ
> 
> PS: I did consider having Sam kill Dean (it probably would've been more believable), but it just didn't sit all that well with me. I guess I'm a romantic at heart, after all XD


End file.
